Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (16 page)

“Take the fig.”

She shook her head and turned back to the window. The lanterns glowed brighter as the light faded and the white narcissus took on a ghostly glow. She ran her tongue over her lips, turned back to Lycurgus. “May I have a drink of water, please?”

“Come, sit beside me.” He patted the couch.

She had no choice but to obey.

“Diodorus described you perfectly,” Lycurgus said.

“What did he say?”

Holding the fig between his thumb and his forefinger, Lycurgus turned it one way and the other. “So much is hidden.” He bit into the purple skin. “See?” He showed Hestia the pulp, pink and full of seeds, then pressed the fig between her lips.

She tasted nothing. Her body felt numb. She tried not to think of Diodorus. How could she have been so stupid? How could she believe he loved her? He had
wanted
Lycurgus to buy her. He had arranged it. That’s why he’d failed to appear at the slave market. She dug her nails into her palms.

“The course of your life has changed, and you should be grateful. My pretty bird, you have landed in a sanctuary. I have plans for you.”

“What plans?”

Lycurgus plucked another fig from the bowl. Using a bronze knife, he cut the fruit into quarters so it opened like a flower. “Give me your hand.”

She did as he requested, and he placed the fig into her palm.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Like you.” He touched her lips. “Not just on the surface, but through and through. I’m told you read and write.”

“My Master taught me.”

“You mean, your father?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Lycurgus to see if he made fun of her, but his expression was serious.

“A great man, but stubborn. He went his own way, and we quarreled.”

“Quarreled over what?”

“That’s not important.” Lycurgus squeezed her hand. “I find it fascinating that you might be his daughter.”

“You believe me then?”

Lycurgus leaned back on his couch. “I’m interested in the theory.”

“And if I
am
his daughter, if I somehow proved that to be true, would you free me?”

“Free you for what? To have the pleasure of becoming a married woman, locked away within your husband’s house with no access to society? Is that the life you want?”

Hestia stared at Lycurgus. What he said rang true. If she were free, according to the standards of society, her best prospect would be to marry. But, as Lycurgus stated, marriage offered little freedom for a woman.

“I’m not sure what I want,” she said.

“How can you know what you want, when you have barely lived? I intend to give you greater freedom than you’ve ever dreamed about. I intend to make you my hetaera. As my consort, you will be freer than any wealthy matron. I will introduce you to a world of pleasure and Athenian society. Thucydides, son of Melesias is a frequent guest at my symposiums. You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course, I’ve heard of Thucydides. He’s the head of the Conservative party. If the Conservatives have their way, they’ll set us back ten years, destroying all the reforms brought about by Ephialtes. Thucydides would have the majority ruled by a few aristocrats whose only right to power is their birth.”

“I see you mince no words. You favor the Democratic party?”

“Yes. I favor Pericles, who dares to challenge the Conservatives. Pericles fights for the rights of rich and poor. Now there’s a man I’d like to meet, and his consort, Aspasia.”

Lycurgus raised an eyebrow. “Aspasia is a hetaera who doesn’t know her place.”

“I’m sure she knows her place; she’s the most powerful woman in Athens. She believes women should have a say in politics. And why shouldn’t we?”

“You have an interest in politics?”

“I have an interest in people.”

Lycurgus cocked his head, studying her with new interest. “Perhaps you are Agathon’s daughter. You’re as stubborn as he.”

“Am I?”

“Are you going to eat that fig?”

She stared at the fruit, still sitting in her palm, open and exposed.

Lycurgus bent over her hand and deftly ate the fig. When he finished, he kissed Hestia’s hand. “Already, you have tamed me. I eat from your palm, and soon you’ll have me twisted round your little finger.”

His manner was so charming, Hestia couldn’t help but smile.

“Do you think I might meet Socrates?”

“Socrates.” Lycurgus frowned. “He’s worse than Pericles.
The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.
What’s that supposed to mean? I’m afraid you won’t meet him at my parties.”

“What, exactly, are the duties of a hetaera?”

Lycurgus stroked his silver beard. “You will entertain me and my guests, escort me to events, be a hostess at my symposiums. It will be your duty to look ravishing. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I don’t think of myself as ravishing.”

“You will consult with the finest dressmakers in Athens, and the best hairdressers will be at your disposal. I will buy you jewelry, sandals, a monkey, a camel—anything you like.”

“Compared to a camel, I might look ravishing.”

Lycurgus chuckled. “I see you posses a sense of humor.”

“I possess curiosity. And, I wonder, what makes you so generous?”

“I’m not generous. I’m merely a collector.”

“I’m a person, not an object.”

Lycurgus burst into a belly laugh. “Why look so grim? Enjoy yourself. You have been reborn to a life of luxury beyond your dreams.”

“I’ve never dreamed of luxury.”

“What then, do you dream of, Hestia?”

“Freedom.”

“And what does freedom mean?”

“I’m not certain. But I’m sure it’s different from slavery—though perhaps, not so different for a woman.”

“We all have limitations.”

“But men are given access to knowledge. And knowledge leads to freedom of the mind, the greatest freedom of all.”

“Wise words for one so young, especially a slave and a—”

“Woman? I believe true freedom is internal, but internal freedom is difficult to experience if you’re outwardly enslaved.”

Hestia got up from the couch and walked to the window. The sun had set, leaving the sky a deep shade of blue, almost aquamarine. Stars were beginning to appear. A week ago she might have made a wish, but now she thought it might be best if wishes were never granted.

“And have you found internal freedom?” Lycurgus asked.

“How can I, when I am a slave to my emotions?”

“Which emotions?”

“Love, sorrow, fear, joy. If I could learn to live without emotions, I might be truly free.”

“Or truly dead.”

“Perhaps death is the ultimate freedom. Socrates says death may be the greatest of all human blessings.”

“Socrates again. Morbid thoughts for such a lovely girl.” With a groan, Lycurgus got up from the couch and joined Hestia at the window. “Despite your penchant of quoting Socrates and your political views, your intelligence pleases me.”

“My intelligence?”

He took her by the shoulders and turned her so they stood face-to-face. He stroked her cheek, his fingers dry and boney. She recoiled at his touch, but he drew her closer. His robe fell open, and he pressed her face against his chest. He smelled faintly of olive oil. She closed her eyes, tried not to think of Diodorus.

Lycurgus brushed his lips against her neck. “Don’t be upset, my pretty bird. You have landed in a gilded cage.” He guided her hand along his stomach.

She tried to pull away.

He moved her hand lower.

“Have you never touched a man?”

She said nothing, wondering if he could tell.

“Not even Diodorus?”

“No!”

She thought of his phallus, hard and prominent—not flaccid, like the withered sausage her fingers now touched.

Placing his hands on her shoulders, Lycurgus pushed her onto her knees. “Imagine it’s a fig.”

“A fig?” She stared at the purplish lump of flesh.

Lycurgus pressed her face against his groin. “Take me in your mouth.”

She gagged at the taste of him. Thinking of a fig, she bit.

Lycurgus doubled over. “Bitch!”

“I’m sorry,” Hestia said. But in truth, she wasn’t. She got up, brushed off her chiton, and rearranged her himation.

Holding himself, Lycurgus moaned.

“Are you hurt?”

“Of course I’m hurt.”

“Master?” Galenos called, from beyond the doorway. “Is everything in order?” The eunuch parted the crimson curtain and stuck his full-moon face into the room. He glanced at Lycurgus, cradling his crotch, and then at Hestia. A smile played on his lips.

“Something amuses you, Galenos?”

“No, Master. May I get you something for the pain?”

“Such as?”

“Cold water from the fountain?”

Lycurgus grimaced. “It’s my pride that’s been most hurt.” Gingerly, he retreated to the couch. Reseating himself carefully, he pulled his robe closed. “Tell the cook to serve us dinner. Apparently this girl is hungry.”

“Yes, Master.”

Galenos glanced at Hestia as he departed, and she could have sworn he winked.

“You have spunk, I grant you that,” Lycurgus said.

“You said think of a fig.”

“So I did.”

“Do you mean to punish me?”

“Not this time.” Lycurgus rearranged himself, attempting to find a comfortable position. “I’m not unkind by nature, Hestia. But I deal in reality and reality can be blunt. I expect obedience. In return, I can offer you the practical things in life, good food, fine clothing, a comfortable bed. I’m an old man.”

“Not so very old.”

“My bark is worse than my bite. Your bite, on the other hand…”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I promise.”

“You’re in love with Diodorus, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“I said, don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying.” She met his eyes, felt the door of his heart creak open, and through the crack she saw the soul he kept hidden. “You know what it is to love, and lose that love, don’t you?”

He said nothing.

“You have suffered.”

“No more than the next man.”

“Why did you never marry?”

“Perhaps I never had the time. Or maybe I didn’t find the right woman.”

Hestia stood in the center of the room, her gold sandals sinking into the rug. The rug’s design was breathtaking, a jewel-toned pattern woven of silk. No doubt, it was a treasure from the Persian war. “I wonder whose feet have touched this rug before mine.”

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you?”

“You’ve always wanted a son.”

“Yes.”

Reaching out her hand, she touched his face. “I’m sorry,” she said, and this time she meant it.

He drew her down beside him, and she didn’t pull away. He unwrapped her himation, allowing the scarlet fabric to fall around her hips. It blended with the crimson couch, the perfect color to hide the fact that she would shed no blood. The crimson couch would help to conceal that she was not a virgin.

M
elaina sat at her table amidst jars of creams and bottles of perfume. She grasped the handle of her mirror and stared into the polished bronze as if hoping to see her future. She hardly recognized the woman she had become. Tears streaked her face, tracks of kohl cutting through the white lead powder. Using a sea sponge dipped in rosewater, she wiped away the evidence.

Diodorus had been gone for ten days. Granted, she had contrived her son’s departure, but now the house seemed empty. Despite her loneliness, she had no privacy. Where in this world might a woman hide except in her bedchamber? She felt the maid’s dark eyes watching her.

“Check with the cook, Calonice. See what she intends to serve for the midday meal. Nothing too heavy.”

“Yes, Despoina.”

Grateful to be left alone, at least for a few moments, Melaina drew a sandalwood comb through her hair, stared at the resulting clump. Cleaning the comb, she rolled the hair into a ball. Alopecia, Doctor Baraz called the condition, a fancy way to say that she was going bald. She peered into the mirror, seeking evidence, but the polished bronze seemed cloudy and a grayish cast appeared around the edges of her reflection. She squinted at her image. Nothing seemed quite solid, as if a fog had rolled in off the ocean and settled on her shoulders.

She took a sip of wormwood wine, attempting to calm her thoughts and untangle her memories. The past kept getting jumbled with the present.

Fanning herself she wondered how much more heat she could bear. The night sweats had crept into the day. Noticing a brown spot on her hand, she searched through a basket of jars and found castor oil. She rubbed a glob into her skin.

She had plans.

First on her list was marrying Lycurgus. But what seemed probable only a week ago now seemed out of reach.

Once again, the problem was Hestia.

What had possessed Lycurgus to buy that slave? She’d sold Hestia to get rid of her, and now, once again, the girl had wormed her way into Melaina’s life.

She held the mirror at arm’s length. At a certain angle the polished bronze made her appear youthful, but when she brought the mirror close, years of disappointment showed. Selecting another jar from her collection, she dipped her fingers into brownish grease and smeared the cream onto her forehead. Despite daily applications of crocodile dung imported from Egypt, despite weekly baths in asses’ milk, red blotches marred her complexion. That’s what came from working in the garden. She touched the corners of her eyes where lines had taken hold, ran her fingers along her jaw where the flesh had loosened.

Her thoughts turned back to Hestia.

If Diodorus discovered that she had sold the girl, he would be angry. Well, let him be. Hestia had been born a slave and she would remain one, no matter what her heritage. Like a chariot with a loose wheel, Diodorus had been racing toward disaster. And, as his mother, it was her job to divert him from his reckless course. Everything she did, she did for him. The sacrifices she had made—remaining married to Agathon so her son might have a future.

She smeared lead cream over her face, hoping to hide the wrinkles. Using a puff of rabbit fur, she slapped on chalk powder. A mask gazed back at her, more Medea than Aphrodite. Perhaps Medea had it right, ridding herself of her children. Melaina always favored Medea. Like her, Medea had waited patiently for Jason while he sailed off with the Argonauts in search of a golden fleece. What a load of nonsense. And upon his return he left Medea for another woman. Jason deserved to see his offspring murdered.